


Take my hand

by jenny_wren



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:53:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme fill - Les Amis help Grantaire when he slips into depression</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take my hand

They’ve all been busy, it’s nearly the end of the semester, there are projects to complete, essays to finish - Combeferre loses forty-eight hours to a take home exam, after handing it in, he collapses into bed and when he wakes up he has to reread his notes to remember what he’d written about.

So they’re busy and stupid with exhaustion and they don’t notice none of them have seen Grantaire for a week, don’t realize there’s a problem until Jehan goes over to check Grantaire isn’t stressing too badly over the portfolio he’s supposed to be handing in.

Somehow, for all their attempts at vigilance, it’s nearly always Jehan who finds him. Jehan knows there’s a problem the moment he opens the door and finds Grantaire’s normally tidy apartment has descended into abject chaos.

After one quick glance, Jehan steps smartly back out the apartment. It took them a year of arguing, persuading and flat-out begging to get to that stage but finally Jehan and Grantaire have accepted they can’t help each other at the bottom of their spirals without triggering each other into cascading circles of depression and guilt that were purely destructive.

Jehan calls Courfeyrac, who calls Combeferre, and they both head over straight away. Courfeyrac collects Jehan, who’s already insisting _I’m not fragile_ which is both frustrating and heart-breaking because he is and he knows it and yet at the same time he and Grantaire both keep on picking themselves up, and it wears the rest of them out just to watch.

Combeferre’s nose screws up at the mess of the apartment. It makes his skin feel itchy and too tight standing there, he doesn’t know how Grantaire can live in it. He walks into the bedroom and gives the heap of duvet a cautious poke, there’s always a horrible half-thought that maybe, maybe this time Grantaire’s demons have destroyed him.

The bundle is alarmingly floppy, but from somewhere underneath comes a grumpy Grantaire-grumble and the covers tuck into a tighter ball.

Combeferre pulls out his phone and starts to make calls.

Bahorel sighs and swears, _stupid little shit_. He’s no good at all at dealing with Grantaire when he’s really low. While he understands depression intellectually he doesn’t seem to be able to translate that understanding into helpful actions, he either comes on too strong, or too sympathetic and is clearly thoroughly uncomfortable to boot. Combeferre’s a bit like that himself, there’s a reason why his job is manning the telephone tree after all and they’re both sorry they can’t be more involved but Enjolras always tells them they’re just as necessary to the support structure, and he knows they are useful.

After agreeing to book a slot for him and Grantaire at the climbing wall at the weekend, and a slot in the gym next week, and to find something to do Friday night that doesn’t involve alcohol, Bahorel signs off.

Bossuet just sighs when Combeferre calls him. He’s good with Grantaire when he’s like this but he tends to stay clear with Joly because seeing Grantaire so unhappy sets off Joly’s normally well-controlled anxiety. Bossuet agrees that he, Joly and Musichetta will go around that evening and tidy up the flat, _it won’t take long, really, R doesn’t actually have that much stuff_.

Feuilly just swears, _should have known_. He’s too rushed off his feet to be able to spare much time, but he can provide his expertise. His job is going to be salvaging what he can of Grantaire’s heap of paintings and turning them into a portfolio that can be handed in. Combeferre agrees to get in touch with Grantaire’s friend Floreal and find out what the theme is supposed to be, _never know he might have got lucky and they’ve picked ‘obsessive portraits of golden angelic looking people’_ , and to try and come up with some blurb for the context part. _It doesn’t have to make sense, any old bullshit will do, R’s art speaks for itself_.

Then Combeferre takes a deep breath and calls Enjolras. Enjolras has his instinctive reactions and he has how he feels he is supposed to react, and if you catch him off guard you get some mutated combination of the two that usually comes out angry.

Today is not an exception, Enjolras rants furiously at him the whole trip over in a way that does little to disguise that his over-riding emotion is actually worry.

He blows into the apartment like the wild wind, sharp and fierce. The messy apartment looks even more squalid under the snap of Enjolras’ vivid eyes. Combeferre has no idea how he does it, but he seems to understand everything he needs to know from the condition of Grantaire’s apartment and when the stiffness in his shoulders eases, Combeferre allows himself to relax.

Enjolras slams into Grantaire’s tiny bedroom, “Come on, get up.”

Mutely the bedcovers burrito in tighter.

“I know it all seems too much effort right now, Grantaire. So ask yourself, is it going to be more exhausting getting out of bed, or putting up with me getting you out of bed.”

The duvet quivers.

“I am prepared to wait indefinitely. Perhaps you would be interested in my views on the recent legislation in the meantime.” Enjolras starts to lecture as he stalks about the tiny space.

The duvet twists and wriggles. Grantaire doesn’t emerge but his voice comes through clearly as he growls,

“Fuck the hell off.”

“You’re going to have to try harder than that to get rid of me. I’ve been punched in the face and spat on by the best.”

“I’m not going to spit on you,” Grantaire exclaims, outraged. The covers shift in a way that suggests Grantaire might be sitting up.

“Oh, but punching me in the face is still on the agenda,” says Enjolras archly.

“No, you fucking loon,” Grantaire fights clear of his bedsheets to scowl at the world in general.

Enjolras promptly hands him a t-shirt snagged from the heap of clothing on the floor. “Put this on.”

The direct order seems to bypass Grantaire’s tendency to dispute and he pulls it on without comment.

“Jeans,” Enjolras orders imperatively, holding out a bedraggled blue pair.

Grantaire looks up at him miserably, “Enjolras, I’m tired.”

“I know, minou, but you still have to get up.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Jeans.” Enjolras drops them almost on Grantaire’s head.

Grantaire scowls and for a moment time hangs suspended, then he scowls harder and climbs out of bed to pull the jeans on over his boxers.

“You’re a fucking menace, Apollo,” he grumbles, “and I am not a fucking cat.”

“Yes you are minou,” Enjolras’ voice has lost its harshness and is now soft, warm and undeniably fond.

Combeferre gets the comparison, getting Grantaire out of bed when he’s like this is suspiciously similar to trying to bath a reluctant cat.

“Crazy fuck,” says Grantaire, but his voice has also lost its spiky edge and sounds mostly affectionate.

“Let’s go,” Enjolras walks toward the door.

Grantaire follows him on automatic, then balks. “Wait, shoes, socks.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes as if Grantaire is being deliberately difficult, but both he and Combeferre know it’s a good sign. There have been days before now when Grantaire has walked right out his apartment without noticing, or maybe not caring, that his feet are bare.

Socks are easy to find, strewn across the floor like absurd confetti. Enjolras grabs a couple and shoves them at Grantaire. When Grantaire shifts to sit down on the floor to pull them on, Enjolras, with a speed at odds to his habitually deliberate movements, grabs the waist of his jeans.

“Oh no you don’t.”

“Enjolras, I agreed I’d come with you.” Grantaire pulls irritably against the restraining hand.

“So let’s keep it that way. Please, minou.”

“Fine,” Grantaire yanks on the socks, trudges to the door where he toes on his ratty sneakers and stalks out the door. “Coming or not, Enjolras?”

Enjolras nods to Combeferre and follows him. Combeferre sighs and shuts the door behind them. Then he gathers up the heap of ignored post and starts to open it so he can find out exactly what sort of mess Grantaire’s affairs have descended into and make sure his utilities aren’t cut off again.

Enjolras follows Grantaire without speaking, trying not to visibly shake with relief. It’s always hard to tell when it’s safe to force Grantaire from his sanctuary. Sometimes he succeeds in extracting Grantaire only for him to snap and snarl for the whole ten minutes before retreating back to bed worse than before. Then Courfeyrac will have to spend a day talking himself hoarse at an unresponsive lump of Grantaire and they have to try the whole thing all over again.

But today has been one of the better ones. Although Grantaire’s shoulders are slumped and he visibly wavers when they pass a set of steps that in the good times would make a perfect spot to sit for a while, he keeps walking without saying anything, even if walking on by takes more effort than this whole walk is going to cost Enjolras.

Slowly, like a muscle tight from lack of use, Grantaire relaxes, his shoulders straighten, his spine loosens and he moves smoothly, no longer appearing to struggle through a world where the air is thick as treacle. His footsteps gain purpose, Enjolras follows without comment, unconcerned by the destination, only grateful that there is one.

When they stop it’s outside a small cafe.

“You’re buying me lunch,” says Grantaire, half-plea, half-challenge. Grantaire’s finances are usually a mess after one of his spells. Even if it’s not too bad this time, and Enjolras is hopeful, Grantaire can have no idea one way or the other.

“Of course,” says Enjolras, “my outing, my treat.”

Grantaire scowls at him, “You’re suspiciously perfect.”

“You’re horribly biased.”

“I really don’t think so.”

Grantaire orders onion soup, which is a relief because Enjolras doesn’t want an argument about healthy food. He chooses butternut squash soup for himself and asks for extra bread. When the food comes he does his best to concentrate on his own and not creepily track ever mouthful of soup Grantaire swallows. He does notice the way Grantaire tears hungrily through the extra bread. He’s always starving after his half-a-bag of chocolate cookies diet.

Because he’s looking for it, Enjolras can see the slow fading of the sudden burst of energy from the hot tasty food hitting his stomach until finally Grantaire’s poking dispiritedly at the last dregs of soup with his spoon. The final mouthful of bread is an obvious effort and he has to drink half a glass of water to swallow it down.

Enjolras places his spoon down, and pulls out his wallet, calculating the bill and tip he tucks the notes under his plate, and stands up.

“Come on. Hey, enough of that.” He catches Grantaire’s fist which is twisted viciously in his own hair. He strokes the hand gently until he can coax it open and release the tortured hair. He keeps hold of the hand. Grantaire jibs once, then meekly follows him out the cafe.

“You should leave me now.”

“I want to go to the park,” says Enjolras, utterly ignoring Grantaire because he’s learned it’s better to pretend not to hear Grantaire being stupid than arguing about it.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything but Enjolras can feel his growing agitation in the twist and twitch of his fingers and eventually he pulls his hand away altogether.

He stops a few paces behind Enjolras, “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” says Enjolras placidly.

Grantaire stares at him as if he the most frustrating person in the world - Enjolras knows the look because he’s usually the one wearing it. He’s hoping Grantaire will shout at him but with awful inevitability the anger collapses and turns inward. Grantaire’s fists screw back into his hair and he yanks violently.

“I hate this. I hate myself. I wish I wasn’t so stupid.”

“You are not stupid.”

Grantaire yanks his head back and howls at the sky.

“You are not,” Enjolras insists, trying to hide his fear. He doesn’t think the other realize but _this_ is the really dangerous time. When Grantaire has recovered enough from the blank nothingness to start hating himself for falling into it. When he can’t stand himself another minute and the temptation to lose himself in a bottle takes control, flinging him back into depression and kicking the whole cycle into high gear.

“How can you still stand me? I can’t stand myself. You all had plans today and now you’re running around after me like I’m a two year old who can’t even cross the road on his own.”

“You’re having a hard time, everyone has a hard time now and then.”

“I’m having a hard time more and more often. It feels like you’re pulling me up every other week.”

“You are having a hard time more often,” says Enjolras, and winces when Grantaire looks at him with wide hurt eyes. “But Grantaire, don’t you see that’s because you’re down for a much shorter time. And, though you’re obviously the true judge, it seems you don’t get as far down either.”

That makes Grantaire stop and think, which is always good. After a moment he falters, “I think, I think you’re right. But that doesn’t make me any less aggravating to you. You think I don’t know that the triple threat are going to spend their date night cleaning out my pigsty of an apartment?”

“Then you should know they’ll do it happily if it means they don’t have to watch waste away like it’s eating you from the inside out.”

Grantaire closes his eyes, “Why are you friends with me again?”

“Because we love you. And you love us.” Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s arm and shakes it as if he can force acceptance into him. “We need you too. On an entirely mercenary level you’re one of the few of us who can cook. We’d all get scurvy without you.”

“Nice try, but you know you’d cope.”

“Sure, we’d _cope_ ,” Enjolras agrees, because he’s not going to lie to Grantaire. “But we wouldn’t be as happy.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Your lives would be so much easier without me in them.”

“No. No they really wouldn’t. For one I’d have had a breakdown by now.”

“Don’t be so fucking ridiculous. You’re like made of fucking titanium or something.”

“No, though I used to believe that because I was an idiot.” 

When he was small Enjolras’ mother had told him he could do anything he put his mind to and he had believed that for the longest time. Had believed that as he could do anything, it was duty to do as much as he could, that it was his duty to change the world _right now_.

The lie, though to be fair to his mother she hadn’t meant it that way, had been exposed for what it was by Grantaire. If Enjolras couldn’t do something as simple and greatly desired as fix Grantaire, then he clearly he could not do anything.

And when he thought about it the sheer effrontery of believing he could ‘fix’ Grantaire was horrendous and it makes him cringe even now. The idea that he could fix the world is so patently ridiculous Enjolras isn’t sure how his eighteen-year old self had been able to hold it with such conviction.

“You were never an idiot,” Grantaire has such belief it makes him smile.

“R,” he says patiently, “look me in the eye and tell me eighteen-year-old-me was not an idiot.”

“Um,” says Grantaire. 

“Exactly. You taught me - ” limitations he wants to say but that isn’t quite right and he knows it will hurt Grantaire. 

Limitations are important though, one person, even one person and his friends, are not going to be able to change the world overnight, no matter how much Enjolras would like to and until he accepted that he would never achieved anything. In accepting he has limitations and setting slower more realistic goals, Enjolras has started to make a real contribution, even if the pace frustrates him at times. Grantaire taught him slowness and, 

“- gentleness.”

“Gentleness?”

“Gentleness. Don’t laugh.” He hunches in on himself, expecting mockery. “I can be,” he stalls then, because he’s been called a lot of things, aggressive, abrasive...

“Enthusiastic,” suggests Grantaire.

Enjolras smiles at this perfect example of Grantaire’s innate gentleness. “You remind me of the importance of being kind. I forget to be sometimes. I don’t mean to but if I’m not careful other things seem to loom larger and it gets dropped in the shuffle. Without you I don’t think I’d be a very nice person.”

“Combeferre would never let that happen. And you are too a nice person.”

“Combeferre wouldn’t mean to but, and I’m sure this isn’t a surprise to you, occasionally I don’t listen all that well. Also Combeferre and I think a lot alike, we don’t always consider other points of view as we should. And I like to think I’m a nice person, but I know I could be a really terrible one.”

“No. Enjolras why are you talking like this?”

“Because it’s true. I need you Grantaire, don’t ever think I don’t.”

“I,” Grantaire is blinking rapidly in the way he does when he’s trying not to cry.

“Sorry,” Enjolras winces, he’s supposed to be making Grantaire feel better, not making him sad.

“No, you don’t get to say amazing things about me and then apologize for them. Fuck Enjolras, it’s,” Grantaire fidgets in place, hands twitching. Enjolras recognizes the mute request for a hug and carefully wraps his arms around him. Grantaire hides his face in his shoulder.

“I wish I could believe it,” he whispers.

“Can you believe me?” asks Enjolras.

“I can try.”

That’s good enough to be going on with. Enjolras hugs his friend tighter.


End file.
